


Visions

by magistrainartis



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Post-World of Ruin, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 08:34:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17464112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magistrainartis/pseuds/magistrainartis
Summary: The dawn has risen, and Ignis' grief awaits





	Visions

**Author's Note:**

> In this story, Ignis plays "A Lightless Journey," found in vol. 2 of the OST. It's a sad, beautiful piece based on his theme that plays during a time when he chooses hope and friendship over despair.

_Noct is dead._ The phrase rattled in Ignis’ mind, but grief hadn’t settled in. He felt sharp, and knew he would for a time before reality reconnected his mind to his heart. It was always this way, with every ally lost to the darkness, every comrade slain. He had at most one hour of clarity before the wave crashed. 

Moments ago, the iron giant had vanished under his knife. They’d felt a shift in the world, felt a balancing of the scales. Ignis had turned his face and felt the sun and breathed air untainted by the Starscourge. The three men stood shoulder-to-shoulder in silence until Prompto turned and sprinted toward the throne room. He and Gladio followed, more slowly. The ascension took an eternity. They knew what they would find, but while they climbed the stairs they could believe that there was still hope, that the gods could show grace. 

Prompto’s cry was a cold blade in his heart. Gladio rushed forward, but Ignis climbed the steps to the throne slowly, counting each one as when he’d climbed them for the first time twenty-six years before. Gladio’s low “Godsdammit,” and Prompto’s sobbing guided him to the throne. Ignis reached down slowly to rest his hand on the King’s shoulder. He carefully took Noct’s wrist in hand, and confirmed what they already knew.

“The sword, Gladio.” Ignis pressed one of Noct’s shoulders to the throne, and felt Prompto press the other. A sigh, a grunt, and a raw wrenching of metal from flesh and stone. But no smell of blood, no taste of death on the air. Only a faint floral scent, like a flash of a summer’s day. They gently lowered their friend to lie at the throne’s foot. The Glaives were based an hour south, and they’d be on their way soon.

Prompto’s crying turned to snuffles. From the rustle of clothes, Ignis was certain Prompto had buried his face in Gladio’s shoulder. His own emotions had been only a hindrance in the past, a song beckoning him backward. But now, he wondered how much simpler it would be if grief came easily, instead of ticking underneath the surface. Gladio was silent. He would have his own demons to face, but only Cor might ever get to know what haunts a Shield who lives when his King falls. The four men waited in silence.

 _Noct is dead._ “I won’t go far.” Ignis descended from the dias as quickly as he dared. His breathing came more quickly as he pushed back the reality fizzling at the edges of his mind. 

He knew the halls of the Citadel better than he knew his own tiny Lestallum apartment. His mouth twitched at the memory of running through these rooms, laughing with Noct as he warped and taunted Ignis to catch him. Noct’s father had stopped them – had even started to give Ignis a stern lecture on appropriate playtime games with the Prince – but Noct kept warping around so crazily and with such joy that all three of them had ended up laughing on the floor. His father had sat them down at the piano and they showed him what they’d learned in that day’s lesson. All was bright and safe.

Ignis proceeded carefully until he felt the carved contours of the baby grand. Even knowing it would be terribly out of tune after a decade of silence, he settled himself on the bench and rested his fingers on the keys. He’s so wished for a piano during the darkness. His violin was light and easy to store, but he’d missed the feeling of his hands moving surely over the keys, of drawing the music from beneath each finger. He softly pressed, just to hear the tone. The string rang soft, pure, and perfect. An octave higher, because he must be imagining the sound, but again the note sounded clear and precise.

Closing his eyes, Ignis allowed his right hand to feel out the first bars of a long-ago melody, and his left hand joined in harmony as muscle memory took over. A song of perseverance and loyalty, of resolve that was without pity, but not without sorrow. A song that quietly, privately, he’d always thought of as his own. A slight crescendo, his body moving as he breathed with the music. His hands as light on the keys as on his knives, creating sprinkles of light tones amid quietly sorrowful lower ranges.

 _But Noct is dead._ His fingers faltered, tripping over flats, and his breath caught in his throat. _Dead and you’ll never talk to him or laugh with him or hear his voice because he’s dead and the Draconian took him from you and you’ll never be with him again because you couldn’t protect him so now he’s dead he’s dead he’s dead._  

Ignis couldn’t breathe. He clutched the piano bench with both hands, squeezing until his knuckles cracked and his fingers ached. But the pain didn’t make the other pain go away and the voice was roaring and the wave was crashing and Noct was on the throne and he was being brutalized by kings and by queens and by _his father why his father_ and his eyes went wide as the sword cleaved his chest. 

Ignis squeezed his eyes shut and tried to slow his breathing. He’d held it together when Insomnia fell. He’d held it together when he’d lost his eyesight. He’d held it together for _ten bloody years_ while he learned to throw daggers in the dark. 

Staggering to his feet, Ignis reached inside his coat and withdrew his collapsible cane. His mind was a vortex as he felt his way forward. _Back to the throne room and I’ll be fine. Just get back to the others. Just-_

Ignis gasped as he fell to all fours. He’d swept the cane before him, he’d ensured the way was clear, but he’d struck something solid nonetheless. Cursing, he reached to clear the obstruction, but neither his hand nor his cane found purchase. He was about to rise when a large, soft, _wet_ nose pressed itself into his hand. Ignis’ reach met silken fluff as the animal wound itself around him and pressed itself to his chest. 

Ignis buried his face in the soft fur and breathed the familiar scent. “Noct is dead.” The animal whined. The torrent broke.  
  
The dog remained still as the fur around the Ignis’ face dampened and his grip on the animal tightened. Remained silent so sobs were muffled and curses quieted. Remained steadfast to bear the weight of Ignis’ shaking shoulders and heavy head. Remained patient, so pain could crash in waves and trickle in droplets as grief ebbed and flowed. 

When Ignis had gone quiet from exhaustion and his tears had run dry, the dog shifted. Ignis absently scratched behind the animal’s ear as it licked his hand and sniffed his face. He felt its head cock as it raised a questioning whine. The sharp bark that followed jolted Ignis to his feet. The sound echoed through the room - a room much larger than the small parlour he’d entered. Another bark, this one answered by a joyful howl. The dog’s final yelp of excitement was lost as Ignis clutched his head. Flashes of white peeling back darkness. _Not again. What more can you show me?_

Warmth flooded the throne room. Sylleblossom petals shone and fluttered. Light shone through every high window and cast beams on the white bunting linking the royal carpets. 

The prophesied King of Light, asleep on the throne beside the Queen. But not an Astral; not a towering monster or fearsome deity of pure elemental power. It was Noct, groomed and handsome, holding a photograph of four brothers smiling in the sun. Noct, purely and completely at peace in this ascended kingdom.

The image didn’t burn away; no hard purple edges fading to black. Just a soft blooming of light, a last look at his friend as darkness settled over Ignis’ vision.

He stood alone in the parlour. A commotion had begun several floors below; the Glaives had arrived, and the celebrations had begun. They would lay his friend to rest in the last Royal Tomb. The people would remember him in songs and stories and Noct would fade away, replaced by the King. They would rebuild; they would look forward. And Noct would need his friends to guide them all. 

_Noct is safe_. Ignis folded his cane, tucked it inside his coat, and turned his face to the light streaming through a nearby window. When he breathed deeply, he could smell the sylleblossoms. There was work to be done.


End file.
